


How do I forgive myself for losing so much time

by aurorafy



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dream Team SMP Setting (Video Blogging RPF), Cuddling & Snuggling, Dream Smp, Dream is touch starved, Dreamon, Fluff and Angst, George is too giving, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Relationships, M/M, Mild Blood, Mild Language, Non-Graphic Violence, escaping prison, mentions of ranboo, mentions of sapnap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:00:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29231172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurorafy/pseuds/aurorafy
Summary: Dream’s hands are cold.That's all he can focus on. His hands are cold and his wrists burn from where the shackles had been burnt off, leaving a sting on the skin that was underneath it.He glances back at the daunting prison, at the walls that held him captive. He stares at the lanky boy that stood in front of it, waving mindlessly at him. He should feel bad for leaving him there. He knows the demon he fought for so long would now travel to the boy, but it's too cold, and he needs to get as far as he can
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 300





	How do I forgive myself for losing so much time

**Author's Note:**

> Woo! My first work here on ao3 :) Hope you enjoy!  
> feedback is super appreciated !!  
> (PS. The title is a reference to the song Nine by Sleeping At Last)

Dream’s hands are cold.

That's all he can focus on. His hands are cold and his wrists burn from where the shackles had been burnt off, leaving a sting on the skin that was underneath it.

He glances back at the daunting prison, at the walls that held him captive. He stares at the lanky boy that stood in front of it, waving mindlessly at him. He should feel bad for leaving him there. He knows the demons he fought for so long would now travel to the boy, but it's too cold, and he needs to get as far as he can.

He wants to help, wants to rid the boy of that horrible voice that made him, and will make Ranboo, do all those horrible things, but he can't right now.

So Dream runs. He runs through the blistering wind that pinpricks his skin with needles of freezing air.

He spares another glance back, breath heaving as his eyes flick at the terrifying tall building. He feels relief. But looking back was a mistake, and his feet stumbled over each other. His body flies into the dirt with a thud noise and his face collides with the sharp grass. He shivers immediately. Fuck, why is it so cold?

Dream groans, shaky arms pushing him back up. His jumpsuit is stained with dirt and grass marks now, and there's nothing he wants to do more than rip it from his body and erase every bit of feeling of the fiber clinging to his skin. But he can't. It's cold and he doesn't have time to pause. His trembling hand goes to his mouth, where droplets of blood pool at the cut now on his lip. He sucks in a breath and wills himself to ignore it.

He launches himself back up and starts to run again, ragged breaths pushing past him as he nervously flits his eyes to the side, half expecting for someone to be following him. Sam maybe, he thinks, or maybe he would see the dark face of the demon who would be burnt in his mind now.

But he sees nothing. He hears nothing, just the distant flicks of torches or hisses of spiders he desperately hopes will avoid him. He really, truly, is free.

His mind is snapped back to the present when he nearly collides with a building, his feet skidding to avoid further damage to his face. When did this cobblestone get here? Had he been gone long enough to miss things being built? He gulps, the thought too consuming for him to let himself catch on. He backs up to continue down the path he knew— _thought_ he knew.

His legs were burning, aching from the cold and the pure exhaustion that poked at his body, threatening to spill over and send him into a collapse. But he keeps going. He can't focus on anything but the pain of his tired body. His limbs do the work for him, pure muscle memory leading him to where he needed—wanted—to be.

In the back of his mind Dream knows this is not the smartest or safest choice. He will be hunted down as soon as it becomes clear he escaped. He knows this will be one of the first places searched. But he doesn’t care.

Dream stumbles further down the path, eyes honing in on the small house he was trying to get to, the comforting shades of white and red coaxing his burnt-out body to continue. The lanterns hanging on each side offer a destination, a safe haven to reach.

10 seconds, he guesses. 10 seconds until he is there.

But It hurts. It hurts so bad. He wants to cry out every time his feet meet the harsh ground and send a painful shock through him.

Only 8 more seconds, he reminds himself.

7 more. His calf tenses up and he scrambles over a stick on the ground as a cold wind whips around him. He narrowly avoids a fall that would have surely wiped him out.

6...5. He can see it now, he’s stepping onto the last bit of pathway and his heart throbs in his chest, a devilish mix of excitement and nervousness twists through his chest and stomach.

4 seconds. Should he turn back? What if he didn’t want to see him? Thoughts rushed past his mind at a mile a minute, each one pushing and tugging at his brain in such a harsh way that his feet paused for a moment.

Turn around. Keep going. Stop. Go, his mind fights with him.

3 seconds. He grunts, shaking away the thoughts. He needs this—needs him.

The last 2 seconds are spent with Dream rushing up the slab step, eyes frantic as he looks at the build in front of him.

When he arrives at the door, no time is wasted before he is pressing his body against the door, knocking harshly at the wood there.

“C’mon,” he begs. “C’mon open up.”

The door goes flying open and Dream nearly stumbles right in.

He’s shivering and his body is covered with a ripped and dirty prison suit that hides his slouching figure. His lip has an ugly gash on it that has smeared red across the pale of his chin. He knows it's probably a sight that would frighten anyone, but he doesn’t have the energy to care.

Dream thought he couldn't get anymore breathless, but when the man behind the door locks eyes with him, he does. Every last bit of air swirling in his lungs is harshly ripped from him as he stares at brown eyes. George. George is standing at the door.

His body crashes forward without much permission from his mind, pushing himself harshly into the smaller body in front of him. His freezing arms wrap around the frame.

Dream lets out a choked noise when the other doesn’t move for a moment, panic rising in his throat at the thought he was going to be pushed away. Instead, he is met with the smaller man tugging him into the house, stumbling back with the newly added weight of the blonde.

The wooden door closes behind them with a harsh slam, and Dream’s legs collapse.

He falls into the wood floor and tugs George down with him, pulls him down to his level, and effectively knocks the breath out of the brunette. His breath now matched Dream’s as they both heave at the sudden painful drop.

But George lets him. He lets Dream pull him down with him, and he lets him steal the breath from his chest as if he owed it to him. He lets the much heavier weight of the younger’s body press painfully into his chest like he needed it to.

His fingers scramble and grip at the jumpsuit, testing to see if it was real, if _Dream_ was real beneath his fingertips. He poked and prodded at the fabric before grabbing at the bunched up cloth on his back, nails dug into the orange-colored garment as though he could never let go again.

Dream feels the urge to cry again. He wants to press his bloodied and stained face into the crook of the neck he missed so dearly, and disappear into the pale skin that he knew would be soft against his aching cheek. Before he can, he’s pulled back from this vision, his body forced away from the warm heat source that he wanted to cling to.

“Dream?” a voice called. Dream’s foggy mind took a moment to place the words to the moving lips in front of him.

George was talking to him. He was hearing George's voice. It nearly knocks him straight back down, and he could barely believe he was hearing it. Every word rang through his ears, swirled around his head until he was dizzy and floating above himself.

“Dream.” The voice said again, this time harsher.

Dream’s mind slammed back into his body with a cold force at the sudden tone change.

Green eyes flicked up to meet brown ones, and he gulped. How was he supposed to respond? What the fuck could he say right now? Nothing would truly be able to convey what he wanted to say, what he wanted to scream and cry.

All he could manage was a “George,” weak and quiet from his throat.

There was a moment of silence, one that allowed Dream to hear the licks of fire from the living room, and the purr of a furnace. Home. It sounded like home.

“I don’t—“ George began, voice panicky and confused. It made Dream’s stomach turn at the thought he would be the cause of such a troubling sound.

“George-"

“I don’t get it Dream how-"

“George..”

“You were gone. You were trapped in the prison and— and everyone said you couldn’t get out. How did—"

“George.” He tried to be firmer this time, and he watched as George’s lips sealed shut.

“I'm here,” He said, voice falling back to a softer tone. “I escaped, George. I’m out.”

He knew that must sound bad. It made him sound like he was just the horrible, evil criminal everyone thought he was.

But how else could he explain? How would he tell George of the painful black void he was in for so long? How would he describe how he’d been forcefully ripped back into his body after months of having no control? How did he even begin to explain the boy with sleepy empty eyes who he left at the prison doors that would now bear the burden his own shoulders had once carried?

Could he even? He was still grasping at the tangled strings in his mind to try and figure it out for himself.

But maybe George could help him grab at them. Help him pull and untangle the strings until they lined up perfectly.

He didn’t want to wonder that right now.

“Why?” George spoke lowly, eyes squeezing shut.

“Why did you escape? You deserve to-“ the brit’s voice caught in his throat. “You did so many horrible things Dream. You deserved to be there.” He eventually finished. Dream wasn’t sure if George was trying to be stern, or if he was trying to convince himself of the words he said.

He guessed it was a bit of both.

“It wasn’t me, George,” he whispered so softly he wasn’t sure George would even hear it.

“What?”

“It wasn’t me. I can't explain now. But I will—fuck, I promise I will, George. But you have to believe me. I didn’t do those things.”

His voice was begging, a deep and desperate kind of sound. But his eyes were even more heartbreaking. Tears pooled there, and he was sure he looked pathetic, but he meant every word. All the honesty he could muster up seeped into his words, straight from the fast-beating heart that lay in his tight chest.

“..Okay.”

“What?” He asked.

“Okay, Dream. I believe you. You can explain tomorrow,” George spoke, calm and clear.

Heat. Heat spread through his body at the words, pulled at every single cold spot of skin with a comforting blaze from the words. His chest relaxed, and the cold of his hands dulled slightly.

He believed him. George believed him. And god, it felt so good. He was sure nothing else could fix the ache in his bones more than that knowledge. No potion or food would heal him the way those words did.

He let himself revel in the moment, in the words spoken that wrapped around him like a warm blanket on his frozen skin.

He barely noticed when his hand wrapped around his arm and urged him up. He could feel the struggle in the grip, and he knew he was too heavy to force George to do it all alone.

So he used the bits of strength he had left to push up, help the hands lifting him and bring himself to his feet.

Now on his feet, his full face and body were on display for George, and he felt eyes all over him, on his dirt-covered clothing, on the slight burns on his wrists, and finally on his face.

Despite being taller than the other man, he still felt unbelievably small under his gaze.

Hands grabbed at his wrist, and a thumb ran over the slightly red mark. Dream looked away to hide the painful gasp he let out when George’s hand pressed against the mark a bit too hard. But after that, the touches are soft and soothing. They make him forget the constant soreness there.

He just let the brunette continue to examine his body, let him take in every inch and every cut and bruise. He remembers how he did something very similar when he found himself waking up in the prison, seeing a body that was his but not at all what he remembered. He assumed George was having a similar moment, so he stayed quiet and let the hands search around to their content.

A finger rested on his chin, pulling it down softly so George could examine his bloody lip. He frowned, and pulled back, immediately making Dream sigh and crave for the touch again. He missed physical affection so much, and he wanted to never be without it again, so every time George pulled away it felt like hell. It felt like frostbite everywhere his fingers didn't touch.

George shuffled off into a separate room, and Dream watched the wall intently until he came back.

George hurried back over and guided Dream to sit in a chair that was pressed against the wall, close enough to the fireplace that Dream could feel the warmness on the side of him that faced it.

George kneeled slightly, slotting himself between Dream’s legs hesitantly. His fingers were nervous as they held a cloth and pressed to Dream’s chin, and he shrunk into himself at the proximity of the two.

Dream leaned into it.

He let George clean the blood from his chin and his lip, padding at the red skin. He can feel his breath against his cheek as his head is tilted one way and then another, cloth gently scrubbing away whatever it could.

The warm swirling feeling returned to Dream’s stomach when he looked at George’s eyes. It traveled through him, to his cheeks that were still red enough from the cold bite of the outside, to his fingertips that ached to be wrapped around George’s shoulders again, and finally to his eyes that stared directly back at the other’s. His eyes held such pure tiredness in them, but the gaze was laced with more, with unsaid words of gratitude and sorrow, of love.

Neither looked away for a beat of silence, allowing themselves to stay in the moment they had created, allowing themselves to see each other after such a long time apart.

Eventually, George looked away. He ducked his head down as he pulled the cloth away and set it on the side to pick up later on.

“I'm going to get you out of this disgusting thing...okay?” George muttered.

Dream only nodded, lip quirking up slightly at the voice and tone he remembered so well, and the way George’s nose was scrunched up at the sight of the dirty prison suit. His George. He watched contently as George moved to his side.

Nimble fingers press to his back quietly, helping Dream’s weak body pull off the prison jumper as a fire crackles in the background. Dream moves his arms as much as he can, and he flinches when the top of the jumper is pulled off, anticipating the cold touch of George's hands against his bare skin. But it's warm. His hands are warm and soft and they help him lift his hips to get the bottom half off.

When the jumpsuit is pulled completely from his frame, George steps away with it, refusing to make eye contact when Dream is in such a vulnerable state. He leaves for another room, and Dream’s tired eyes don’t follow him.

He's left to stay there for a moment, undressed and cowering on the seat. Despite the soft sounds that surround him, he can’t help but slip back into his loud mind. He dares himself to look down at the skin he hasn’t seen exposed since he was in the prison. since he regained consciousness and control over his body.

The skin on his arms held a map of scars and marks, painful memories of the things he had done with no choice, forever painted onto his skin. It wasn’t his fault, but he would never be able to erase it. He had to look away before the reality crushed him down any further.

George returned a moment later, eyes shifting anywhere but Dream’s face as he cleared his throat. It pulled Dream back to reality.

“I—uh, found some of your old clothes you left here ages ago,” he said quietly, arms extending out toward Dream. Laying in his palms was a green hoodie, one that was not new but held a sense of familiarity, and some simple pants he remembered wearing a million times.

George had kept his clothes. After everything, he had kept little pieces of Dream around.

Dream reached out for them, slowly working enough strength to pull the familiar hoodie over his head, and even more slowly bend forward to pull the bottoms on.

He felt warm again. This chair was so much more comfortable than the cold stone of the prison, or the frozen grass that lay outside. He couldn't help as he slumped back in the seat and let his eyes flutter closed, the sound of shuffling a backtrack as everything slowly went quiet. He was so exhausted, and the comforting warmth of the clothes was a breaking point as he let sleep tug him into its arms.

He could finally rest.

it wasn't long-lasting however, and he felt a weight shift next to him on the seat.

“Dream—Hey, Dream,” George called softly, grabbing the blonde’s attention as he blinked his eyes open and looked lazily at the brunette.

In George’s hand was a bowl, which he slowly moved so the edge rested at Dream’s mouth.

“Please just sip this for me, you need it,” he offered when he saw Dream’s confused expression.

Dream compiled after a moment, lips resting on the side of the bowl as George tilted it slightly, doing all the work to help him eat.

The tastes hit his mouth a second later, and Dream wanted to melt into the feeling of the soup on his tongue. Mushroom soup. He hummed appreciatively and swallowed down what was offered to him.

It felt like his first meal in ages. Raw potatoes were his only food while locked away, and even that was on rare occasions. He was given enough to survive, but never enough to feel full. Sam wouldn't allow it.

Even after Dream had come to, and for days had begged Sam to talk to him. Even after he begged to explain what happened. He was still left to starve. Despite his pleas, Sam refused to do any more than roll a single potato into the cell.

Dream understood though. He wouldn’t waste his time on himself either. He wouldn’t believe his own words if he were someone else.

So why did George? Why was George sitting here, feeding him and looking at him that way? Why did he deserve that? He had specifically hurt George. He knew that. His foggy memory gave him images of a dethroned George, of harsh words and broken promises.

He knew they would have to talk about that one day, but today wasn’t that day.

For tonight, he would let George protect him from his mind, allow the older to let him believe everything would all be alright, give him a sense of calm amongst the harsh storm in his mind. Even if a voice told him he didn’t deserve that.

When the soup was finished, Dream licked his lips and hummed again as the bowl was taken away from him. George remained quiet as he tossed the bowl carefully onto the table.

He looked down at Dream for a second, as if trying to decide something. There was a fight going on behind the brown eyes he looked at, but he wasn’t sure what.

“Get up,” George says.

“Hmm?”

“Get up, we are going to my bed. You can’t stay in this seat all night.”

Dream was sure his body suddenly jolted with energy at that suggestion, one strong enough to get his legs to stand him up with a quickness that he didn’t think his tired body could manage.

A bed. He was going to get to sleep in a bed. Specifically, George’s.

He hadn’t felt comfort like that in ages, and he thought for a second of the hard stone he had collapsed onto many nights after so long of trying to stay awake. Sleep had scared him in the prison, made him wonder if he would even wake up as himself, so he avoided it as best he could, even if that meant hours of exhaustion, and painful crashes.

But here, in the comfort of George’s little house, sleep welcomed him with open arms, and he knew he would be safe.

He pressed close to George as he was led to the room, through a small hallway that had chests half-opened. He thinks he catches a glimpse of a white bandana, and his heart aches as he thinks of the raven-haired boy who was probably all alone right now. He needs to see him too, he thinks.

Soft hands wrapped around him lead him into the dark room, but they never stray too far, as if George knew that Dream couldn’t bear to not be touched at the moment.

He is led with no resistance to the bed and urged to sit down, before falling back against the pillow and shuffling into the bed fully. The soft fabric bent under Dream, and he immediately sunk into it, his body going lax into the mattress.

George blows out the flame of the lantern near his bed before joining Dream, dipping into the blankets and pulling them over the two.

His back was to George, and he fights back a whine when he isn’t immediately met with the comforting touch of the other’s hands.

Dream curled in on himself, and soon he feels George’s arm reach around to pull him close against his chest.

It was a position neither were used to. Memories of Dream in his place came to him, Where instead of George’s arms wrapped around him, it was George’s back pressed to his chest as he rested over the smaller frame.

But he needed this. He needed to be the smaller one for a moment. He needed to be taken care of, to be enveloped in care and warmth after so long of isolation and cold.

Even if he was too big to be completely cuddled into, George tried his best. His hands pressed into Dream’s body and soothed the ache there. His chin pressed onto his shoulder and Dream let his eyes closed.

He needed this, _so_ much.

And George, he was willing to give that all to Dream. Every breath against Dream’s neck, every soothing hand moving against the other, he was willing to give and give until the blonde couldn’t take anymore from him.

Even if he shouldn’t, even if he still had no answer to why Dream had done those things, just a promise of explanation that George clung on to in order to rationalize everything. He still couldn’t help the want—the _need_ , to be there for Dream. To let Dream take as much as he needed from George.

Dream sighed, loud and content as he let his mind fall quiet again.

Thoughts of the prison, of the boy he left behind at the gates, even the blurry memories of what evil he had done to his friends without choice, went silent. Everything faded away as the sound of George’s breath lulled him to sleep again, steady and soothing against his ear. The warm feeling in his heart spread around his body again, and he thought he would melt into the bed, into George.

The grip he held on the blanket weakened, and his breath became shallow, matching that of the brunette, who also felt the calming presence pull him into a calm tired state.

Everything around him went dark. As Dream fell asleep, all he could focus on was the feeling of warmth and the comforting promise of trust.


End file.
